Mad
by nancystagerat
Summary: Oneshot BellatrixRodolphus. When I get my Kiss, I promise there won’t be much for the dememtors to suck out. I’ve eaten away too much of my soul already just looking across the corridor at him.


He's going mad, you know.

I can see it when he looks at me, the wildness in his eyes, the strange curve of the lips he doesn't use. If he does speak, then I can't hear him. I'm not one to talk; I think I'm going crazy as it is.

It's sad, pathetic, actually, to watch the man who loved you waste to nothing. Ha, wait, let me rephrase that; the man who, when I bit him, wasn't afraid to bite me back. Love is vain and stupid, a false chivalry that waits to die not for the other person, but for its own insipid martyred glory. What we had wasn't love. We didn't adore each other. He was an arrogant son of a bitch and I told him so. We didn't pine away like idiots when apart. I never needed him to do anything for me, and he knew it. He never looked for me to throw myself at his feet, and didn't want me to.

What we had was a dangerous, gentle sort of violence. Mutual hate and admiration for each other, if you will. He drew my blood and then licked my wounds clean. I drew his and painted my kisses with his color. We bit and scratched and bled each for the other, to prove that we could handle any pain we could dish out. But we were careful about it; only so deep, only so many, only where we wouldn't bleed to death. I couldn't have my partner dying before me, now, could I? But I could always take the pain, so long as he was the one to make it hurt.

I can't handle this now; neither of us can. Not when just looking at each other hurts. Sometimes I'll glance across the corridor, and from what little we can see into each other's cell cells our eyes will meet. Sometimes I'll catch him staring at me, but the ending is always the same. He always looks away as soon as I feel his hollow gaze. I know he's not totally sane; I can tell by the fear in his eyes when they lock with mine, when he snaps his face away. He would never look at me like that before we had dementors always breathing down our necks. That is not the Rodolphus Lestrange I married. That is not the man who bound himself to me.

We promised to die _with_, not for, each other. The same with our Azkaban stay. I'll probably get my final sentence before he does; I got him into this mess. I'd done so well without getting caught I'd gotten cocky, drew him into my games. I'd promised him the Longbottoms would be fun, persuaded him to get his hands dirty with me. He and I were so sure we'd never get caught, too caught up in ourselves and the thrill of painting the walls and ourselves with blood to stay careful while having our fun. Adrenaline is like a drug; it tears through your veins and all of a sudden caution ceases to exist. We felt invincible, intoxicated by the danger we created for ourselves. We were sloppy. Left things behind. Got ourselves landed here. Thus, his madness is mainly my own doing.

It's his lucid moments that kill me. Our marriage was based upon a lack of love we both embraced, all the better to keep any attachment from impeding our loyalty to the Dark Lord. We told ourselves that was our lofty noble reasoning, but we knew we meant it mainly to keep our own attraction from hurting, should we lose each other. Our logic failed miserably, and we are the result. Sometimes when he looks at me I see the feeling in his eyes and my insides twist. There is pain there, wanting, throbbing, intense, and I know he can see the same in me. I imagine how I must look to him—she who could once make him beg and bite and bleed, now a wasted, brittle shell of what she used to be. But his eyes tell me that isn't what he sees. His broken mind and body aren't what I see. I try to hold his gaze as long as he'll allow, drinking in the strength of what's between us, savoring the ache that tells me, yes, this man is mine. I live and die for those moments, when he can look at me without hiding his face and I can let the tearstains slither down my cheeks. And then, sometimes as soon as I catch him, he's gone again. His eyes lose all their substance, he snaps his gaze away, and I know he is no longer mine.

When I get my Kiss, I promise there won't be much for the dememtors to suck out. I've eaten away too much of my soul already just looking across the corridor at Roddy.


End file.
